by TG Wolff
The work had just begun when Yablonski appeared in the doorway, a big, ugly angel holding a cardboard tray with four coffees. “Sorry I’m late. Did I miss anything?”
Evidence tags began dotting the space. Time and patience paid off. Three sets of prints were collected. One would, of course, be Sophie’s. They collected the bloody fur from Diana the cat. In the laundry area, Yablonski uncovered a beige towel buried in the garbage beneath lint balls and empty detergent bottles. It matched those in Sophie’s bathroom and was dotted with blood.
Dawn had come and gone by the time Cruz sat in Montoya’s office summarizing the evidence. The commander’s head hung heavily from hunched shoulders. His eyes, painfully red, kept straying to the coffee mug Cruz kept firmly in his hands. “What are you—sorry,” Montoya said, checking the display on the ringing phone. “Would you step out for a minute?”
Cruz complied, heading for the coffee pot. He topped off his third cup of the day, which showed restraint considering what time the day started, and took a maple-frosted cinnamon roll from an open box, keeping his word to Aurora to put something in his stomach beside coffee.
“Cruz.” Montoya beckoned with a fading cadence of a duck call instead of his usual snap.
Pity drove Cruz to pour a second cup for his commander, fixing it to disguise the bitterness a neophyte couldn’t appreciate, and balancing a donut atop. He entered the office where Montoya sat in his high-backed chair, eyes closed.
“No sleep again?” Cruz asked, setting sugar and caffeine in front of his commander.
“My son spewed the last of his guts around midnight. He nearly fell asleep on the bathroom floor, he was so exhausted. Shit. I don’t know how long it took to get him cleaned up and in bed. Three minutes after we turned the lights out—three minutes—my daughter is at our bedroom door. ‘I think I’m going to die.’ My daughter is dramatic. She’s been on death’s doorstep a good hundred, hundred fifty times. My wife got out of bed to coax Celia back to her own room when…” His face soured; he swallowed hard. “Yeah, so now she has the bug. Won’t be sleeping in our bed for a while. I should feel guilty leaving my wife to deal with it, but I don’t. That was the most disgusting night of my life. Give me a homicide any night.” He bit into the donut. “God, I love sugar. So, where are you with DeMusa?”
“Someone worked hard to make the victim’s overdose look self-induced and then tipped their own hand by going back. Why risk returning? The only answer is something incriminating was left behind.”
“The pill packet was stolen from a senior citizen?”
“Teresa Addison. I’ll talk to her today. Maybe it was taken by someone looking to sell, maybe it was taken by someone she knew.”
“Why go back in now? It had been over two weeks since the overdose.” Montoya gulped the coffee, tore another bite from the donut.
“There was a three-hour window between when we fed the cat and when the search warrant arrived. How did the suspect know the apartment was unoccupied? I don’t go in for coincidence. Something tipped our hand. The suspect realized something was wrong, wrong enough to risk returning to the scene of the crime. For the timing to work, the suspect had to be nearby. We know he took the pill sleeve; we don’t know what else he took.”
“You found prints and blood.”
“I’m most interested in the blood on the cat. She went a round with someone inside Sophie’s apartment. I have the names of the men DeMusa snubbed recently. Nothing sounded serious enough to attempt to kill her, but you never know how a guy is going to take it. I’ll talk to each of them. Then there was an unidentified woman she argued with.”
“Is it common knowledge she didn’t die? Could that be what instigated the return, learning the pills didn’t do the job?”
“Anyone spending any time in the apartment building would know she survived. One of the women at Three Witches has a voice like a tornado siren. Lutz reportedly did a feature story on DeMusa. It was picked up by social media. If the suspect wasn’t around, then it is possible he didn’t know, but not probable. If someone coerced or forced her into ingesting the pills, they would have been stalking the outcome.” He sat back in the guest chair, crossing his ankle on his knee. “It isn’t common knowledge she’s pregnant. She was planning to visit her mother this weekend. I need to talk to her, find out if she knows who the father is. I poked around the edges with one of DeMusa’s employers and have no indication she knew. Sophie wasn’t broadcasting the news.”
Montoya sighed deeply, a man who didn’t want to ask a question to an answer he didn’t want to hear. He shook his head, cursing lightly. “Any connection to Posey?”
It was one reason why Cruz respected Montoya, he didn’t tiptoe around the hard questions. “If I didn’t know the history, Posey’s name would be a thousand miles from this case. But Posey and Sophie are connected in a way that can’t be ignored at this point.”
Montoya leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers, a signal he was weighing those pros and cons. “All right. Pay a call to Mr. Posey as a courtesy. Cleveland police giving him a heads up about a potential public relations situation. Blah, blah, blah. Take Yablonski with you and get his read on the guy.”
Some days were a sprint, others a marathon. This Tuesday morning was a steeplechase. His current obstacle was the efficient administrative assistant to Andrew Posey, chief of staff to the mayor of Cleveland. He and Yablonski sat where Angela Johnson indicated and waited like wayward students outside the principal’s office.
The office door opened and the man he’d only seen in photos walked out. “Angie, call Mr. Merck’s assistant back. This itinerary doesn’t work at all. My notes are there.” He dropped a paper on her desk that was black and white and red all over. “Call Billings. We need to go over this mess with the accidents. It’s January, for God’s sakes, everyone should have relearned how to drive in snow by now.”
The assistant’s eyes volleyed between her boss and cops in the chairs. “Certainly. There are—”
“Do me a favor and use those superhuman powers you have to just make the snow stop.”
“I’ll do my best.” This time she pointed to him and Yablonski.
Posey’s gaze assessed them. There was nothing subtle in the way he swept over them, hats to boots and back again.
“Why are the Cleveland police sitting in my office?” He directed the question to Yablonski. “Let me guess, another one of our genius employees mixed up the gas and the brake, plowing into a bus of circus clowns, and now we have to shut the city down because of all the funny business.” He chuckled. “I’ll have to remember that one for the press statement.”
Neither of them laughed.
“That was a joke, gentlemen. I do make them occasionally.” When they both only stood, Posey muttered under his breath. “A complete waste of wit.”
“Detective Jesus De La Cruz, homicide. This is Detective Matt Yablonski, narcotics.”
“Narcotics? If this is about the heroin in the snow, I know all about it.”
“It’s not,” Yablonski said. “Can we talk in private?”
At the grim tone, he hesitated, then gave them a politician’s smile. “Of course. This way, detectives. Angie, hold my calls.”
Closing the door behind them, Posey walked with quick strides to his desk. “I can only spare a minute. The snow has made a mess of our city.” He struck the pose of an important man, a busy man with no time for nuisances like two cops without an invitation. The body language conveyed power, control, dominance in the way of animals.
Cruz studied the bookshelves, reading titles, examining photos. Yablonski drifted to the glass-topped conference table. Something captured his attention and he lifted a few sheets of paper.
“Those are confidential.” Posey hurried from behind the desk, took the documents, and returned them to the table, face down. “What did you need to talk to me about?”
“A courtesy call, Mr. Posey.” Yablonski’s voice was
a powerful bass capable of warning and threatening in the same breath. “A situation has crossed our desks with the potential to create questions the mayor’s office may have to field.”
“A situation?” Posey stacked the documents, preventing Yablonski from perusing the content. Then he noticed Cruz was not with his partner. “Interested in borrowing a book? I’m sorry, Detective, what was your name?”
“De La Cruz. I’ve read most of these. Similar tastes.”
Posey chortled. “I doubt it.” He focused his attention back on Yablonski. “Exactly what is this situation?”
“Sophie DeMusa,” Yablonski said.
Fire lit in Posey’s eyes and he moved on the cop. “Jesus Christ. You have some nerve coming here, saying that woman’s name. I am done putting up with her shit.”
Yablonski planted his feet wide and crossed his arms, creating an immovable object. He was no taller than Posey but had fifty pounds on the man and that mother of all tiebreakers, experience. “Cool it, Posey. No one’s harassing you. We’re doing you a favor.”
“How is walking into my office and throwing the name of a women determined to ruin me a favor?” Posey stepped into Yablonski’s personal space, then thought the better of it. “I’m calling the mayor.” He whipped out his phone and hit the contact button. He let the ringing on the other end be heard.
Yablonski turned to Cruz and raised an eyebrow. Cruz shrugged, moving to Posey’s desk. Everyone has someone they call when they’re in trouble. Usually, its mommy or a lawyer.
“She’s in the hospital, in a coma,” Yablonski snapped.
Posey’s gaze stayed on Yablonski as he ended the unanswered call. “A coma? I don’t understand. What happened?”
“It’s under investigation. By all appearances, she overdosed on sleeping pills. She was found and transported for medical attention.”
Posey leaned his hip against the table, squeezed his brows, hiding his face for a moment. “Oh, wait. I did hear about that. I have one of my interns monitor Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram, and she did report DeMusa was hospitalized. Frankly, I’m not surprised she tried to kill herself. I’ve been saying from the start the woman was unstable. She was in over her head and didn’t have the common sense to see she was drowning. I told her there was no winning. She had to find out the hard way.”
“I need to ask, sir, where were you two weeks ago Friday night?”
His gaze snapped back to Yablonski’s face, eyes narrowing until the threat was palpable. “I know you aren’t accusing me—”
“No, sir.” Yablonski held his hands up, palms up, slowing the oncoming stampede. “The Cleveland police are looking into the circumstances to determine if Ms. DeMusa acted alone. If the media picks up our investigation, the first connection they are going to make is to you. We do not plan to make our work public but, frankly, I’m surprised you haven’t been swept in. Going forward, it’s in all of our best interest to ensure that base is thoroughly covered.”
“You’re right. Of course, you’re right. God, my wife doesn’t deserve this. A man is entitled to a mistake, isn’t he, Detective? It shouldn’t mean it’s played out in front of the world.” He appealed to the human inside the cop.
“Two weeks ago Friday,” Yablonski said, “beginning around five o’clock.”
“Let me think. The mayor had an event that began at six. I changed into evening clothes here and went with him in his car. It finished around nine-thirty and the mayor dropped me at my home before ten. The champagne must have gone to my head. I laid down on the couch to read and next thing I knew it was two in the morning.” He paused to let the notetaking catch up. “You have all of that, Detective? I went to bed, and then was up at seven the next morning to start all over again. My wife can vouch for me.”
“Thank you, sir. That should answer any questions,” Yablonski said, still looking at his notes. “When had you last seen Ms. DeMusa?”
“Before the new year. Sometime in December. That woman came here to blackmail me and, when it didn’t work, threatened to expose our little tryst. Did I lose my temper and say ugly words? Absolutely. I have no patience for people who lie, steal, and cheat their way up the ladder. She wanted me to pay and I did, but not her. I nearly lost my wife, my position, the respect of the mayor. Keeping them has been my number one priority.”
“Understandable,” Yablonski said. “Can you tell us about Ms. DeMusa’s state of mind? You said she was focused?”
Posey crossed to his desk, offering Yablonski a guest chair with a wave of his hand. A gesture he did not extend to Cruz. “Like a laser. Someone convinced her I’d raped her, and she was owed restitution. She gave me a list of demands.”
“A list? Do you still have it?”
“A copy. My personal attorney has the original.” He drew one from a file in his desk drawer and offered it to Yablonski. He let silence work for him, not speaking until Yablonski’s eyes were back on his. “I am the victim here.”
Yablonski handed the paper to Cruz. “As I said, this is a courtesy call because of the media potential. Cleveland police wanted to give you the opportunity to prepare for any fallout. We do not intend to issue any statements regarding the case.”
“Thank you for your discretion, Detective. I would appreciate it if you could keep me updated on her status.”
The admin’s voice broke into the conversation. “Drew, sorry to interrupt, but the German liaison is on the line. He needs your input immediately.”
His schooled expression broadcast annoyance at the disregard of his order. “I’m sorry, detectives. I really do have to take this.” With a sweep of his arm to the door, he shepherded his guests out.
The door closed firmly behind them. Yablonski scowled; Cruz rolled his eyes. With a jerk of his head, Yablonski plastered a smile on his mug, his sights set on the secretary. “Busy man you work for, Angie.”
“It’s not the man, it’s the job. No office is busier than this one.” The experienced assistant stilled her hands and returned a polite smile.
“How long have you worked here?”
“Twenty-four years next month, twenty in this office.”
He whistled. “You are a dedicated public servant. How does Mr. Posey stack up to the others?”
“Oh, he’s at the top, I’d say. He knows what he wants and how to get it. There’s been many who know the former, some that know the latter, but a rare few who know the both. People go into this job wanting to leave a mark on the city and are flabbergasted when they actually have to work it. Drew works hard and gets things done. He was behind the Wabash deal that brought the steel company and three hundred jobs to the city. Mayor Mulgrew may have the ideas but it’s his chief of staff that turns them into reality.”
“Impressive. I didn’t think about what went into the project.”
“Years, Detective. Years of dinners, phone calls, proposals, packages. People of this area don’t realize how much the growth numbers are because of what happens in this office.” Angie sat tall, proud of the work she’d been a part of, explaining the inner workings of a major US city.
“You have to know about Sophie DeMusa. What’s your opinion?”
She inhaled deeply, shook her head. “All I know about what happened is nobody knows exactly what happened except Drew and that woman. I won’t speculate. I work for Andrew Posey. His wife stood by him and that’s enough for me.”
Cruz opened the door to the hallway. “Yablonski, we need to go. Thank you for your help, ma’am.”
“Thanks, Angie.” With a wink, Yablonski handed her his card. “Stay warm.”
They walked down the hall together, the only sound the report of their shoes on the hard floor. The same was their companion to the first floor and out the oversized front doors. In the filtered light of a gray-clouded day, a blistering heat erupted from Yablonski’s mouth. The tirade had pedestrians hurrying just a little bit faster. The big man punched the air, kicked the horizon, and flipped off the
stone edifice behind them.
“You about done?” Cruz asked, curious about the outburst from his famously sardonic friend. Yablonski was to sarcasm as peanut butter was to jelly. But this R-rated rant was the sardine that just didn’t belong. “What’s that all about?”
“Are you serious?” Yablonski goggled at him. “How did that not piss you off?”
“The interview with Posey? Were you expecting him to drop to his knees and admit he tried to kill Sophie?”
“I’m not talking about DeMusa. I’m talking about the way Posey completely ignored you. From the time he stepped foot out of his inner sanctum, he talked to me. This is your case. Why didn’t you take control? Why aren’t you outraged?”
He’d seen it. Of course, he had. Andrew Posey had looked at the Hispanic man standing in his office and cast him in the role of “sidekick”. The entirety of his attention had been focused on Yablonski, aside from when he’d been examining his books. It wouldn’t have surprised Cruz if Posey worried he’d steal one. So, he was a bigoted asshole. Wouldn’t be the first to work in city hall. Wouldn’t be the last.
“You’ve been white too long,” Cruz said, laughing quietly, inviting his friend to calm down and shrug it off, but the set of that unibrow rejected the deflection. “Matt, I can’t count the number of times I’ve been ignored because of the way I look. Or, other side of the coin, get the wrong kind of attention for the same reason. It gets to a point where it’s ordinary.”
“But it shouldn’t be,” his pissed off friend snapped.
“No, it shouldn’t be, but, damn, it takes a lot of energy to stay angry and righteous. That’s not who I want to be, you know? I don’t want to spend my life in a fight of one kind or another. I want to spend it doing something worthwhile, something that makes a difference. I did it when I was in narcotics and I’m doing it now with homicide. Can we shout about this while we get out of winter? I need coffee.” He headed down the street to a small café tucked inside a big building. “I didn’t take control because, yes, I saw him lock onto you as the man in charge. If it would have been someone else, would I have reacted differently? Maybe. I don’t know. But you and me, we’re solid. And, it gave me an advantage.” He took out his wallet. “Two large coffees and two of those maple rolls.”
